


exploring your sexuality: healthy, but does it have to be with the prince of faerghus?

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Multi, Pining, Politics, Romantic Comedy, Secret Relationship, Self-Discovery, it's not super explicit but you'll know, no beta we die like Glenn, no knowledge of rwrb is needed to read this fic, some things will be added tho, still takes place in the same time period as canon, there's no war because i said so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When heir to the leading house of the Leicester Alliance Claude von Riegan accidentally ruins Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg’s royal wedding, he’s forced to pretend to be best friends with her step-brother and his long-time nemesis Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd to avoid inciting a full-blown war.Except, somewhere along the way, their fake friendship that’s solely for the sake of the press turns into something a lot more real, and perhaps a tad more than just friendship. Somehow, the real issue is no longer pretending to be best friends with Dimitri—it’s pretending they aren’t more than that.-- AKA, a Red, White, & Royal Blue AU
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 195





	1. have your cake and eat it too

**Author's Note:**

> someone please tell me if this title is too ridiculous. i have been going back and forth for days between the Funny Title (this one) or the Dramatic AO3 Fic Title ("history will remember us") because i think they both suit the tone of this story. im too indecisive...
> 
> when i played fe3h for the first time i kept getting this feeling that dimitri reminded me of someone but i couldn’t figure out who and then after a while my brain was like OMG HES HENRY FROM RWRB?! and then my brain expanded even more and was like CLAUDE AND ALEX??? and thus this idea was born! dimiclaude are both two of my favorite viddy game characters of all time (especially claude golden deer bayBEE <3) and i really wanted to explore their characters and their relationship since it doesn’t get NEARLY the amount of attention it deserves in canon, i could write ESSAYS on them!! so this fic is my excuse to do that :D it’s my first fe3h fic so i’m very excited to post this!
> 
> just some disclaimers before we start (sorry this is so long i talk too much): 
> 
> — no knowledge of rwrb is needed to read this fic, it’ll just read as a sort of royalty romcom-ish au if u haven’t read it before! however i highly highly recommend you do read it eventually bc it is so wonderful and funny and charming and one of my fav books ever <333 this fic will follow a lot of the basic events of rwrb or modify them to work with fe3h but ive kinda cut out a part of the storyline (if you’ve read it: the presidency race) just because it doesn’t really fit with canon and would only make this behemoth of a fic EVEN LONGER... so if u plan on reading rwrb u shouldn’t be spoiled entirely (however if you’d prefer not to be spoiled at all go read rwrb first and then come back to this!!) if you decide to read this first, then i hope i do a good enough job that it makes you want to read rwrb after lolol :-)
> 
> — fodlan is a lot more unified in this au than it is in the game. all three countries are a lot more focused on trying to preserve harmony and keep good relations with each other than they are in canon. this is mostly just so i can make story events work because if i make each country as independent of one another as they are in canon then it makes my life much more difficult! so just keep that in mind. there’s a couple of other things i’ve added to make this story work better, but i’ll mention them once they come up. i've tried to make them tie into canon!
> 
> — the war doesn’t exist in this fic and all the students are alive and well because im TIRED of suffering!! honestly i just wanted to see some silly ridiculous fun for my kids and so i said the proverbial phrase of Fuck It I’ll Do It Myself and here we are! (however pre fe3h events like duscur have still occurred bc backstory.) tying into that, the monastery isn’t really a thing in this fic either- it exists, but it’ll never really be brought up because none of the characters go there. the nobles all know each other at least vaguely because of the constant diplomacy events that happen between the countries, and some of the commoners find their way into this too. they all receive their educations separate from the monastery.
> 
> — dimitri becomes king when he turns 20 as opposed to 18 in this because it works with the story better, so they’re like 19 turning 20 in this au. this is small i just feel the need to mention it because it’d probably be weird to see dimitri still be a prince when he’s over 18 with no explanation shdkshdksj
> 
> that’s all the disclaimers i’ve got! i hope you enjoy!!

It’s early afternoon, sunlight creeping back in through the large windows in Claude’s bedroom like an old friend and setting the room with a lethargic golden glow, when Hilda and Lysithea show up. Or, for perhaps a more fitting description, barge through Claude’s bedroom door unannounced with the same tact as a herd of elephants, Hilda with her hands on her hips and Lysithea with an armful of sweets that Claude’s certain she swiped from the kitchens.

Had this been the first time Hilda and Lysithea dropped in out of the blue to House Riegan, Claude would already be at the defensive, the dagger his mother had gifted to him a decade ago for instances like this clutched in one hand, poised to strike the intruder. However, after plenty of years of experience with his two closest friends, Claude’s hardly phased, giving a perfunctory glance up from the book he’s in the middle of reading while he lazes upside-down on his bed. His hand only twitches slightly towards his pillow where the dagger lies hidden underneath.

It’s been five years since Claude ran from Almyra to Fódlan, eager to escape the shackles of the life he once knew and find a place for himself somewhere unexplored on his map. Ironically enough, what he’s found here is much the same to what he already had in Almyra—same prejudices, same ignorance, same noble events he’s forced to go to, although much less lively. Truthfully, he feels no more at home here than he did in Almyra. It’s Hilda and Lysithea who help convince him that there’s worth in staying here, to pursue his lofty ambitions and childhood dreams and tear open Fódlan‘s Throat. Since being introduced to them just a couple moons after his arrival at one of the Alliance’s many conferences, they’ve all been attached by the hip, a three person Gemini.

Their unbreakable trio is well-known and documented around Fódlan largely thanks to the papers—Lysithea’s the wise, future scholar destined to pioneer greatness across the continent, Hilda’s the free spirit who effortlessly sets innovative trends amongst the people every moon, and Claude’s the controversial golden boy, the mysterious, dashing rogue who dropped into the Alliance without warning and seized the title of its leading house's heir. Lysithea propels him forward, and Hilda keeps him grounded. They're unchangeable facts in Claude's life that he clings to in his weaker moments.

Dog-earring the page he’s left off on, Claude sets the book aside and sits up. “Well, look who it is. Honestly, with the amount of times you two come to visit, you might as well ask my grandfather to give you your own personalized bedrooms to stay in.”

“And miss out on getting to have a giant sleepover in your room? As if,” Hilda smiles, saccharine but genuinely fond, moving forward to peck Claude on the cheek. She then unceremoniously dumps her belongings onto Claude’s bed and flops down beside him, and he resists the urge to sigh in exasperation. It’s not like his room doesn’t always looks like a hurricane has passed through it anyways, what with all the books and maps strewn across the floor and vials of questionable liquids in odd places. She yawns, stretching out her arms. “Man, I’m beat after that trip. You make wyvern-riding look so easy, Claude. Cherche looked like she was going to chomp me to pieces when it started _drizzling_ on the way here.”

“Maybe if your wyvern was less prissy, it wouldn’t be a problem,” Lysithea rolls her eyes, perching herself on Claude’s other side and shooting him a halfhearted glare when he reaches forward to ruffle her hair in greeting. He can’t help but grin cheekily back in response. All the petulance of a huffy cat, that one, but none of the bite when it came to those she held close. “One wrong move, and she’ll turn the entire ride into your own personal hell.”

“Aw, don’t talk about Cherche like that. She’s fussy, but she’s a doll when it really counts. Kind of like you, Hilda, actually,” Claude muses, lips twitching with laughter at Hilda’s ensuing noises of protest. With a false air of bravado, he swoons and adds, “However, I can understand your frustrations. Wyvern-riding is an art style; a way of living, if you will. Alas, not just anyone can master such an advanced skill. It takes one with true resilience and talent to understand it, internalize it, and execute it properly. You must become one in mind, body, and soul with the wyvern—“

His rambling is cut short by a swift slap to the back of his head, courtesy of Hilda. “Gods, you just love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” She grumbles, ignoring Claude’s yelp.

“Hey, it’s not my fault your wyvern likes me more than you!” Claude fires back, indignant.

“That’s hardly a fair statement to make. I think every wyvern in the world likes you more than anyone else. You’re like... a wyvern whisperer, or something,” Lysithea points out through a mouthful of one of the mini square cakes she’d stolen, grabbing the book Claude abandoned earlier to flip through it and peruse its contents. She gives an appreciative hum, as if validating his reading selection on Fódlan children’s folktales, of all things, and he huffs through his nose in amusement.

Hilda sighs deeply. “Ignoring Claude’s weird wyvern-beguiling ways, I guess I’d better get used to Cherche’s attitude. We’re gonna be in for a long ride on the way to the Empire, tomorrow.”

Claude turns to look at her, eyebrow arched quizzically. “On the way to the... Empire? Tomorrow? For what?”

“For Edelgard and Dorothea’s wedding, duh!” Hilda’s eyes narrow, her gaze knowing and sharp. It reminds him all too well of the way Judith looks at him whenever she can tell he’s considering slipping some laxatives into a particularly annoying noble’s meal, and he idly wonders if Hilda’s been taking some pointers from her. “Wait. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Who, me? I would never!” Claude chuckles, purposefully avoiding meeting Hilda’s eyes. “But, uh. That’s tomorrow?”

“Claude!” Hilda groans. “It’s only the biggest event of the year, you know! Even Edelgard’s coronation ranks below this!”

Claude’s nothing if not practical, and at that statement he gives Hilda a curious look. “Are we really going to rank a wedding above Edelgard triumphing over her father and becoming Emperor—“

“No, she’s got a point,” Lysithea interjects, surprisingly. Claude would’ve expected her to agree with him, considering their likeminded sensible attitudes. It makes more sense when, with a gleeful pull to her lips and a starry look in her eyes, she explains, “I hear they spent hundreds of bullions on the cake _alone._ I _have_ to try it. A cake that expensive must taste more divine than drinking from the chalice of the _gods._ ” Less dreamily, she adds, “Plus, you know how over-the-top those two can be when it comes to each other. I’m interested in seeing how extravagant they go for an event as important to them as this one.”

“Ugh, I bet you only forgot because your ‘arch nemesis’ is going to be there,” Hilda rolls her eyes, with air-quotes and all. “You'd never give up on the chance to tease Edelgard otherwise."

Claude curses, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Shit. _He’s_ going be there? Also, please don’t call him my arch nemesis—titles like that are only for people who are worthy of them, and he’s far from that. He’s merely a very unpleasant individual who constantly irritates me with his very existence.”

“Claude, it’s his step-sister’s wedding, _of course_ he’s going to be there!” Lysithea gripes. “Did you really think he’d skip out on a day as momentous as this one?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past him,” Claude mutters.

Hilda flicks him lightly on the forehead for his comment, having been subject to far too many instances of Claude’s complaining in the past. “Listen, literally nobody cares about your weird, homoerotic, hate-obsession with the Prince of Faerghus.” Claude quickly earns himself another harder flick to the forehead when he makes retching noises at that statement. “Just play nice with him, and maybe _don’t_ cause an international scandal at the Adrestian Emperor’s and the star of the Mittelfrank Opera Company’s long awaited wedding.”

“Me? Cause a scandal? It’s cute you think I’d get caught in the first place,” Claude grins, languid and charming. He can count the number of times he hasn’t managed to slip away from trouble’s tight and unforgiving grasp on one hand, and he wouldn’t need all of its fingers either.

“Whatever, you scoundrel, you’ve been warned,” Hilda replies. “Now, tell me you’ve at least got your outfit planned for the event?”

Claude’s silent for half a beat too long, and Hilda and Lysithea swivel their heads to glare at him while he smiles sheepishly. He’s beginning to think all the women in his life have regular strategy meetings on how to pin him down and make him squirm under the pressure of just their stares. “Claude!” They both chastise.

“I can explain, really—“ Claude starts, only to be interrupted by Hilda flouncing out of the gold-spun sheets of his bed, huffing furiously. She starts rummaging through his closet, throwing out clothes left and right in her search for something deemed fit for him to wear, some purposefully hurled right into his face despite his cries of protest.

“ _Men!_ ” Hilda cries, throwing her arms in the air in exasperation. “This is exactly why I have a girlfriend!”

♚

The trip to Enbarr takes a few days, but it’s plenty enjoyable with Hilda and Lysithea’s company, and they make it in good time. Accompanying them for protection are a few guards and Claude’s retainer and combat instructor, Nader, or _Nardel,_ as Claude’s forced to call him in front of the people of Fódlan. The exceptions to this rule are Hilda and Lysithea, who are the only people besides those with some sort of high ranking professional affiliation to him that know of his Almyran heritage. They’re the only two people he’s allowed close enough to know, because he’s certain he can trust them completely.

Claude’s known Edelgard for just about as long as he’s known Hilda and Lysithea, and meeting Dorothea as Edelgard’s partner came only a few moons later. With all the diplomatic meetings between the three ruling countries of Fódlan, becoming good friends with Edelgard was inevitable. She’s always been someone Claude will easily admit to admiring, a headstrong and fierce young woman with no patience for anything that holds her back from her goals. She’s also ridiculously fun to tease, and as much as she claims Claude’s the bane of her existence, their comradery has always been a relationship he treasures.

Claude and Dorothea get along like a house on fire, much to Edelgard’s dismay, and the antics they manage to get up to every time they reunite always cause the Emperor to look like she’s seconds away from an ulcer. They’re the pioneers of the _Fuck Fódlan’s Elitist Nobility Club_ , and finding new ways to scheme against their targets together at those stuffy diplomatic events never gets old. The organization’s latest victory was Edelgard overcoming her spineless father to become Emperor, over which the two shared a very hearty toast after the coronation. Although they’re both masters of deception, they’re wordlessly able to see through each other’s facades, and Claude feels they’ve formed a true, empathetic bond over the years. He holds near and dear to his heart the time they tricked Lorenz into drinking so much he attempted to court a Gloucester cat.

When they finally arrive through the gates of Enbarr, Claude is immediately taken aback by the sight before him. He’s been here countless times, but never before has he seen so much festivity, especially not from people of Fódlan. The energy and excitement buzzing in the atmosphere from the citizens is so much _there_ that it feels palpable, and Claude wants to take it in his hands and absorb it all gladly.

The streets are swarmed with what must be every single Adrestian out celebrating the occasion, many carrying vivid red banners and parading around in support of the Emperor and her soon-to-be Empress Consort. Jaunty tunes fill the air from groups of musicians, accompanied by couples dancing to the rapidly changing tempos, graceful on their feet. There’s people clinking glasses together before knocking back their drinks, while others cheerfully distribute sweet snacks for a couple of gold, decorated with Edelgard and Dorothea’s names on them.

Perhaps the best part, in Claude’s very mature opinion, has to be the vendors selling merchandise of the couple—he passes by someone selling underwear with Edelgard and Dorothea’s faces stitched on them, and it instantly causes him to dissolve into a fit of laughter. Lysithea has to forcefully drag him away from very nearly buying a pair to show the couple later. _At least Dorothea,_ he thinks grumpily, _would laugh with him._

Soon, once they’ve managed to push through the dense crowds, the Imperial Palace looms before them, its tall spires that scrape the sky and its pure, white-bricked exterior all giving the palace an especially exalted appearance.

Claude turns to look down at Lysithea standing on his right side, forever finding amusement in the way she’s a whole head shorter than him. “Numbers on this going well?”

Lysithea hardly even needs to give him an appraising glance, an exasperated smile on her face as she instantly responds, “At least a 75% chance of you getting yourself permanently banned from the Adrestian Empire after poisoning Ferdinand von Aegir’s meal.”

“To be fair, would Edelgard even be mad about that?” Claude remarks. He’s met with a light slap to his left arm, where Hilda’s currently fixing him with a stern look.

“Claude, remember—play nice today,” Hilda reminds him. “If you ruin their big day, I’m pretty sure both Edelgard _and_ Dorothea will have you assassinated by Hubert in the night.”

Claude sighs, a heavy and dramatic thing that sweeps his shoulders up and down with the effort put into it. “Fine, fine. I promise I’ll leave all meals untampered.”

Hilda nods, satisfied, and a bright smile takes shape on her lips. “Well then, let’s go, you dorks."

♚

The wedding’s absolutely lovely, and that’s putting it lightly. Dorothea looks stunning in a satin and lace maroon gown, with sleeves that drape off her shoulders and a mermaid shape that has the train pooling in ripples around her feet. Seeing Edelgard stride elegantly down the aisle is equally as breathtaking, small flower buds weaved through her pinned up hair to match the color of her vibrant red ball gown. Both of them are a stark but pleasing contrast to the blinding white decorations, like a pair of entangled roses against a snowy backdrop. _Or perhaps two beating hearts tied together chamber by chamber would be a better comparison,_ Claude muses as the couple lace their hands to begin speaking their vows.

Hilda openly sheds tears of joy when the couple swear their hearts to one another and lean in for the kiss to seal the promise off, and even Lysithea has to hide her face for a few minutes afterwards, as if by doing so nobody will realize she’s weeping. Claude’s not one to let anything visibly affect him, every reaction he gives carefully planned and deliberate, but he’ll admit to having to blink away a tear or two. Of course, to distract from this, he makes sure to tease Lysithea as much as possible afterwards, earning himself a swift kick to the shin that he definitely deserves.

For as touching as the ceremony is, the reception afterwards is the true prize in Claude’s eyes. Lysithea had been pinpoint in her assessment that the couple were going to make it as extravagant as possible for each other. Twinkling chandeliers shine like beacons, their spindly branches curved upwards and wrapped up in flowers that match the red of Edelgard’s outfit, along with billowing white tulle draped across the ceiling. There are ornate tables lined with delicacies to feast upon, and smaller, round tables with elaborate floral centerpieces for people to dine at. A large space is left open in the middle, presumably for people to dance, accompanied by a large group of classical musicians. Finally, next to one of the buffet tables, lies a giant, six tier monster of a wedding cake on a tall, gleaming pedestal, decorated with wine colored buttercream flowers and two adorable mini figures of Edelgard and Dorothea holding hands on top. It’s the most elaborate and breathtaking event Claude’s been to since he arrived in Fódlan, and although its grandeur is different from those of the celebrations back in Almyra, he can appreciate this all the same, especially since it's for two of his friends.

Some ways into the reception, once the newlyweds have had their first dance and the attendees have all settled down, Claude ambles his way over to where Edelgard and Dorothea are standing, wrapped up in each other in every way, from their fond gazes at one another to their interlaced hands that haven’t seem to have broken apart since standing at the altar.

“So, I suppose congratulations are in order, huh?” Claude greets, a warm smile spread over his lips at the sight of the two of them.

With a gasp, Dorothea turns her eyes to Claude, face brightening like the rising sun. “Claudie! You made it!” She uses her free hand to wrap an arm around his neck and tug him close, embracing him tightly.

“Of course, did you think I’d miss it? I’d only been waiting for our princess over here to pop the question forever, y’know.” Claude gestures to Edelgard, standing at Dorothea’s side.

Edelgard rolls her eyes, but there’s a trace of a smile drawn on her face. “You know, I could have you sentenced for your constant butchering of my title.”

Claude laughs. “As if you’ve ever wanted me or any of your friends to address you so formally. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that frown every time someone’s kneeled to you tonight.”

Edelgard sighs, as if conceding defeat. “In any case, I suppose I must give you my thanks for your attendance tonight. Though, your absence certainly wouldn’t go amiss, either. As much as I would love to see it any other time, please don’t tell me you’ve already spiked one of the councilmember’s drinks.”

“Edie, what are you talking about?” Dorothea says, a look of pure childlike glee on her face. “ _Please_ tell me you’ve spiked one of their drinks, Claudie, and if you have, which one? Just out of curiosity, of course. If you say Duke Aegir, I will gift you me and Edie’s firstborn.”

“Sorry, Thea, but I’ve got orders to be a good boy tonight,” Claude spreads his hands open, a coy twist to his lips. More soft and genuine, he adds, “Besides, I wouldn’t want to start any chaos at such a momentous occasion for you two to begin with.”

“Well, that’s certainly a relief. But... thank you, Claude,” Edelgard responds, smiling.

“Any time. Well, not _any_ time, it’s good to keep those horrid old men on their toes every now and then, isn’t it?” Claude amends. “Anyways, I wouldn’t want to keep you two lovebirds away from each other any longer. Thea, my darling, take care of our princess for me!”

He meanders around the reception hall for another few minutes, exchanging greetings and pleasantries with any acquaintances he sees. He finds Petra and Caspar arm-wrestling at their table, with Linhardt loosely officiating the match. Hubert is skulking in the corners, although Bernadetta appears to be keeping to his side. Ferdinand and Lorenz are chatting about something or another by the buffet table, which Claude makes sure to steer clear of, lest he wants to feel an aneurysm coming on. On his way back to his table, he spies Sylvain pestering an irritable Felix while Ingrid watches on in exasperation. It’s a typical sight, but what’s unusual about the image is the absence of one person to complete it. Claude takes careful note of this, turning the image over in his mind. _Maybe he really didn’t show?_

Claude slides back into his chair at the table where Lysithea and Hilda have been sitting. Marianne, Hilda’s longtime girlfriend, has joined them, and she smiles kindly at Claude in greeting. He’s always adored Marianne—if there’s anyone in the world he’d go to ridiculous lengths for, it’d definitely be her. She's practically a saint among the rest of humanity, and they've formed quite a good friendship over their similar struggles with their pasts. Their relationship has only strengthened over the years, to the point where Marianne has stopped being overly self-conscious and now feels comfortable enough indulging quite a bit in Claude’s banter and antics, which he’s extremely proud of. They exchange warmhearted and familiar pleasantries, Marianne absentmindedly playing with Hilda’s hair all the while, done in an elegant ponytail.

Hilda lets out a huffy exhale, mouth jutted into an irritated pout. “You know what’s crazy? We’re at a wedding between two women, and yet all these weird, old, Empire noblemen still don’t seem to get Marianne’s my girlfriend. If one more of them say that me and Marianne look like ‘such good gal pals,’”—and here she imitates their low, haughty and condescending voices terribly—“I’m going to tear their awful hairpieces off.”

Cackling, Claude responds, “Oh, you two should totally fuck with them. Kiss each other right on the mouth and then be like, ‘Yup! Just a couple of pals!’”

“Please, I bet they’d take it seriously,” Hilda groans, pressing a hand to her face. “They keep bragging about their positions, and I don’t even know what any of them mean to understand the difference. What the hell is a _marquis?”_

“The cocktail?” Lysithea asks, bemused.

“No, no, you’re thinking of a mar _tini,_ Ly. I _wish_ they said martini, could you imagine? Claude, you’re our nerdy political brain around here. You read those boring government books, or whatever. You tell me.”

“Pretty sure it’s just another pretentious title for a nobleman with way too much power in his hands,” Claude shrugs.

“Aren’t they all?” Hilda sighs, examining her fingernails. “Ugh, they should make me a marquis. Imagine having a professional title for doing practically nothing! Then I could just make my footmen do all the work for me while I go be pretentious at parties with Marianne as my beautiful, strong, talented trophy wife who’s better than everyone there. Can your weak, bitchy little husband carry you in his arms, Duchess of Whogivesashit? Well, my dearest Marianne can, and without even breaking a sweat! Isn’t she absolutely divine?”

“Honestly, Hilda? I say go for it,” Claude says, smiling at the way Marianne’s cheeks are now dusted pink. “All you really have to do is seduce and marry one of them, make their death look like an untimely accident, take their title and their land, marry Marianne, and bam. You’re a marquis. Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff, if you ask me.”

“Both of you deeply concern me,” Lysithea mutters, but there’s a layer of affection buried in it she’s never been good at hiding, especially not from Claude.

Claude deftly picks up the glass filled with sparkling champagne in front of him and takes a swig, surveying the dance floor filled with bodies swaying every which way. “You know, I could really go for a dance right now to show up some of these stuffy nobles,” he says. With a wink, he asks, “Any of you care to be my partner?”

Lysithea instantly wrinkles her nose. “Please, count me out. I’d rather be caught dead than dancing.”

“Boo, you’re no fun,” Claude whines. “Marianne?” He’s met with a quick head shake from the girl in question.

“I think I’d prefer to watch for now, i-if that’s alright,” Marianne says, apologetically.

“Well, I guess that just leaves me to dance with my dear ol’ Claude. Let's show them how it's done—“ Hilda starts, but is suddenly interrupted by a tap on her shoulder. Claude shifts his gaze to the culprit, who appears to be some sort of royal attendant, based off his attire.

“Lady Goneril,” the attendant bows before them, and they all share a mutually confused glance. Claude’s intrigued, suddenly leaning forward ever so slightly in his seat to be sure to catch the attendant’s words. “His Royal Highness Prince Dimitri of Faerghus would like to know if you’d care to partake in a dance with him.”

The easy, casual grin on Claude’s face instantaneously cools over and freezes into ice. _Of course. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear._ Hilda’s head snaps toward him at breakneck speed, face sporting the most wicked, shit-eating smirk he’s ever seen her wear. There’s a silent conversation that takes place between them with just their eyes in the following seconds, flashing green warning _don’t you dare, demon_ and sugary pink responding _I’m gonna do it, bitch._

In a voice so sickeningly sweet Claude feels like he’s being force-fed an entire jar of honey, Hilda simpers, “On second thought, Claude, babe, would you mind waiting on that dance?” Rising with a flourish to face the attendant, she dusts off her gown and twirls a strand of her ponytail around her finger. “I’d be absolutely _delighted_ to dance with His Highness, first.”

Claude grips his glass of champagne with a tad more pressure, smile still stretched cold and fake. Lightly, he responds, “Is that so? Then be my guest. I’ll wait eagerly for your return.”

Right as he says that, as if the moment couldn’t get any worse, the forces controlling his life decide to mock him even more by having Dimitri himself suddenly materialize by the attendant, a dark gloved hand extended to Hilda. He looks absolutely immaculate in royal blue, a suit tailored to fit every plane of his body perfectly, with his sharp jaw and piercing azure eyes and ridiculous haircut, everything just as pristine as they had been the last time Claude saw him moons ago, and Claude wants nothing more than to scream into some uncaring void.

Those cool eyes flicker over to meet Claude’s for a brief moment, and Dimitri merely gives him a curt nod in acknowledgement— _as if he’s_ nobody _, a part of him seethes_ —which only causes the icy grin on Claude’s lips to spread wider over his teeth, twisting at the ends with a touch of rancor.

“Hello, Hilda,” Dimitri greets, and Claude thinks he’s seen a cat ready to pounce with the exact same expression Hilda’s wearing right now. “Care for a waltz?”

Hilda titters playfully behind her hand, but her eyes are keen and surveying. “Gladly, Your Highness.”

In the blink of an eye, Dimitri’s whisked her away to the dance floor, leaving Claude frozen, Lysithea gaping, and Marianne staring off in amusement. Among Claude’s experiences with betrayal in the past, this has to be one of the worst. He’s already formulating a long, long list of all the ways he’s going to get back at Hilda for this petty stunt.

“Well, that’s a thing, then?” Lysithea supplies, and Claude flags a waiter over to refill his glass of champagne to the brim.

For the next few minutes, Claude’s the picture of ease, lounging in his chair with a lazy smile as he pulls sips of champagne from his glass and watches them dance. It would all be fine, really, if that smile wasn’t fake and ever so slightly strained, and if he didn’t feel an insistent, inexplicable itch under his skin that only grew in intensity the more time went by.

Jutting his chin towards the pair, Claude asks Marianne, “This doesn’t bother you?”

Marianne shakes her head. “Ah, no, not at all. I think it’s quite sweet of the prince, actually...”

Lysithea’s staring at the pair carefully, a question on her face. It’s the kind of look she only gets when she’s theorizing hard about something, and it reminds Claude of Hilda’s shrewd eyes earlier. “Dimitri doesn’t seem like the type to be interested in Hilda like... _that,_ anyways.” Before Claude can further question what she means, she’s already turned to Marianne, chatting away about a new book on wild animals she’s found that she thinks Marianne would like.

For some reason, Claude’s still annoyed, and as much as he racks his brain for an explanation, he’s unable to come up with one that feels _right_. The most reasonable one he can think of is that it’s simply his general dislike for Dimitri, and because of it, Claude doesn’t want him chumming it up with his best friends. _Is that really all it is, though?_ Marianne’s fine with all of this, and it’s her girlfriend. Why is this bothering him so much?

Shit. Trying to figure this out is going to take forever. He flags a waiter again.

Claude’s started downing champagne just a bit quicker than he knows he should be, with how well he’s familiarized himself with his limit. It’s nothing insane, and he’s certainly not going to go past that boundary—he can’t, not when he’s a schemer filled with carefully guarded secrets people wouldn’t hesitate to exploit. Alcohol rusts those locks he’s placed, seeps into them and makes them easier to pick open, and Claude won’t allow anyone to get the upper hand on him. But the itch under his skin is just so _annoying,_ and the more he drinks, the more it subsides to a slight, tolerable buzz.

The other annoying side-effect of alcohol, besides its tendency to destroy inhibitions, is that it turns him rather maudlin, and causes him to reflect on those personal artifacts he keeps locked away. One of them, to his unending irritation, is the time he first met Dimitri.

It starts a bit earlier than that, really—back to when Claude knew Dimitri, but the latter likely knew nothing about him. Five years ago in Great Tree Moon, when Claude was thirteen going on fourteen and had just arrived in a new land whose ties to him he’d never explored, and the cool, brisk air in Alliance territory from the moons prior had just started to turn stickier, and he still had false hopes for broader mindsets from the people of Fódlan. During that moon was when he formed the beginnings of his friendship with Hilda, who had short pink pigtails and was a bit bratty, but who still treated Claude kindly and invited him over to House Goneril to “study and train together” every week.

Those were always the highlights of Claude’s earlier time in Fódlan, for a few reasons:

One, because if he was lucky, he got to see Hilda’s cool older brother Holst when he wasn’t off being a general, who made funny jokes and told Claude interesting stories about his adventures, even if he was a bit needlessly suspicious of Claude’s intentions towards Hilda at first. (Imagine his surprise a few years later, when Hilda came home with a girlfriend, fingers interlaced with Marianne’s.)

Two, because talking to Hilda always made him feel good, and he hadn’t found many other people in Fódlan he liked having conversations with as much as her. Whether they were discussing their abstract ambitions or debating the who's hot and who's not of Fódlan, for the first time in his life, he felt like he actually had a friend.

Three, because in House Goneril’s library, there was a leather book detailing the histories and current leaders of each of the three countries in Fódlan up until a couple of years prior to his arrival, and it was his treasure.

There were plenty of reasons why the book was useful for an outsider like him, but its utility wasn’t really what Claude was focused on. The true value of it to him was the section on Faerghus—more specifically, that of the current royal family. It gave an overview of each of the members: King Lambert, Queen Consort Patricia, and, most importantly to Claude, Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, the young boy who would be his fellow leader in the future. He remembers with vivid clarity the picture of a twelve-year-old Dimitri engraved into the book, beautifully oil painted with pure blue eyes, clearer than the lakes Claude splashed in growing up, hair that looked like it was spun of gold, and a toothy, innocent smile that made something in his chest clench, though not unpleasantly.

Every time Claude visited House Goneril, eventually he’d find his way back to that book in the library, laying on the posh, fluffy rug and pouring over every fact there was to know about Dimitri in those sacred pages again and again while Hilda busied herself painting his nails and playing with his hair. He remembers pressing the pads of his fingers gently to the painting of Dimitri, careful not to let freshly painted nails cause any damage to it in any way—although often, he’d accidentally smudge a bit on the other pages, which always caused Hilda to huff and puff at him while she redid them. Even as the moons went by and Claude realized that Fódlan wasn’t so accepting of those different from its natives, he returned, clutching onto the book a little more tightly.

Eventually, it got to the point where Hilda gifted him the book, claiming that none of her family looked at it anymore to begin with, and she was tired of watching him pine for it like a lover all the time in the sanctity of her own home.

Perhaps it was because of the attachment he’d already gained to the picture before he’d known the truth of the close-minded majority in Fódlan, but in Dimitri, he saw someone different—someone kind, someone comforting, someone who, as a fellow leader, could work with him and help Claude achieve his dreams. At the very least, someone who could maybe be Claude’s friend, once they had met.

And then they met, and Dimitri was cold and harsh and callous, a glacier of a boy, lacking any of the warmth displayed in that picture, and Claude felt the crushing realization of how wrong he’d been, of the lie that book let him fantasize about. The Dimitri of his daydreams was nothing but fiction.

He never went back to the book after that—left it buried at the bottom of one of his dressers filled with junk.

Hilda returns eventually, a mischievous smile on her face as she grabs Marianne’s hand to pull her out of her seat and onto the floor to dance. Marianne’s startled and embarrassed at first, but she gives in, unable to hide her giggles as Hilda twirls her around to and fro, ignoring the bewildered looks they're receiving from some of the aforementioned pretentious old nobles. Lysithea gets up a moment later, wandering off to chat with Annette, one of the few people she claims is tolerable to be around.

Which is how, left to his own devices and nobody to hold him back, Claude goes looking for trouble in the form of Dimitri.

Claude finds him by the pedestal displaying the massive wedding cake, nursing a dark tinted glass of some drink, presumably champagne, and watching the celebration with that polite, robotic smile that’s always on his face, not a trace of personality in it other than what Claude hypothesizes is concealed disdain. He looks too—too perfect, and Claude despises it. Claude’s always been a troublemaker, and now is no exception. His hands burn with the need to poke and prod, to evoke something _real_ and _human_ out of Dimitri, to force Dimitri to reveal his true feelings of hatred and contempt.

Claude stands beside him, posture casual. “Y’know, I love Edelgard and Dorothea, but when you do one of these, you should definitely get a giant fountain of fondue, and ride down the aisle bombastically on a lion, or something.”

Dimitri turns his gaze to him, a surprised look on his face. “Claude... I wondered if I would have the pleasure.”

“When do I ever disappoint? I’m a man of the people, after all,” Claude responds with a wink.

Dimitri smiles, and there’s something... oddly _pleasant_ about it that Claude isn’t used to seeing from him. Like Dimitri’s _happy_ to talk to Claude, which he’s certain isn’t the case, based off their relationship consisting of years of barely concealed animosity. “True. Perhaps it _was_ foolish of me to expect any less from you.”

Claude’s not drunk, not really, but he’s tipsy enough to let his irritation slip through the cracks in his lax and easygoing façade. He blames that on what blurts out of his mouth next.

“Doesn’t it get tiring, pretending like you don’t think you’re above all this?”

Dimitri looks at him, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t think I understand what you’re getting at.”

“You know. The self important attitude you have,” Claude elaborates, twirling his hand in some sort of weird, abstract gesture. “You stand here, the picture of perfection, a sweet and good and dutiful little prince. And you do all the right things, sure—you smile, you dance, you make pleasantries. But it’s all an act, right? You think you’re better than this.”

“Oh,” Dimitri responds, and there’s something to his voice that sounds... _disappointed?_ Claude must be slightly tipsier than he thought, if he’s starting to hear things that he’s sure aren’t there. That's definitely not good. “You’re drunk.”

Claude’s unfazed, leaning a casual elbow on Dimitri’s shoulder despite the latter having at least a good five centimeters on him, which really only adds to his irritation. “I’m just saying, I think I’ve got you figured out. You can drop the façade with me, Your Princeliness. Maybe you’ll actually have some fun with it gone—I’m sure it must be burdening.”

Dimitri flicks him a cool, sidelong look. “You do not know me nearly as well as you think, Claude.”

Claude’s lips stretch into a venomous grin. “Ah, is it that mask that’s to blame for your curtness?” He taps Dimitri’s stoic face lightly twice with a finger. “If so, maybe I should rip it off and ask this all again.”

Laughing ruefully, Dimitri responds, “I would kindly suggest switching over to water, Claude, before you do something you regret.”

“Ooh, ever so polite, as usual, Your Princeliness! But is that a threat underlying those words?” Claude asks, peering up at Dimitri curiously. “Sorry, is my presence bothering you? I thought you’d _love_ having another person obsess over you! Good thing I could never be one of them.”

“I’d beg to disagree. I think you are rather obsessed,” Dimitri responds.

Claude’s smile falters for a split second, and he barks out an empty laugh. “Really! How so?”

Dimitri’s tone is detached, but there’s just a hint of spite to it, the tip of a blade dragging across Claude’s neck. “Do you ever consider the fact that it’s always _you_ seeking _me_ out, and never the other way around? Every time we speak, I am nothing but courteous towards you, and yet you insist on starting fights and always come back for more.” He stops to take a sip from his glass. “Just a thought. It seems like the trait of an obsessed person, does it not?”

Claude’s silent for the next few moments, for the first time in their entire conversational history at a loss of words for what to say in response. Dimitri sighs, shaking his head. “Well, if that’s all you have to say, you’ll have to excuse me. Have a lovely evening, Claude.”

The feeling of annoyance that curls through Claude’s body at that is unlike any other. He’s _pissed_ that Dimitri thinks he gets to have the last word, angry that somehow he couldn’t come up with a retort in time. On instinct, he grabs Dimitri’s arm as he’s walking away. Dimitri turns around, and for once, there’s something _real_ in his eyes, a small but fierce fire, and Claude thinks it’s interesting, how the hottest flames burn blue. He looks like he’s about to push Claude, or punch him, and Claude can only think _finally,_ finally he’s coaxed out some real personality, of which he hasn’t seen since the first time he and Dimitri met.

The sudden yank, however, added to his already inebriated state, causes Claude to lose his balance, stumbling backwards over his feet. In a panic, and to prevent the fall he knows is coming, he grabs the closest thing to steady himself.

Except the closest thing is Dimitri, who’s already been thrown off thanks to Claude’s yank, and all this accomplishes is Claude dragging Dimitri down with him.

Together, they topple backwards, right into, Claude’s brain finally realizes with horror, the pedestal displaying the six tier, delicately frosted wedding cake that cost several hundred probably very large bullions.

The pedestal teeters and the cake sways precariously, before finally losing its resolve and crashing right to the floor where Dimitri and Claude are lying in a heap, sticky, creamy frosting coating them like it’s a snow storm.

The entire hall instantly goes silent, the calm after the storm, everyone looking on at the two in shock. Claude’s sure they must be a sight: suits askew and covered in chunks of red velvet, a thin red cut on Dimitri’s cheek where his champagne glass broke from the fall—which his delirious brain hysterically notices wasn’t carrying champagne, but some sort of children's fruit punch—and Dimitri’s wrist grasped tightly in Claude’s hand.

There are only two things Claude can register in the moment: one, Edelgard’s outright murderous face just a few meters away from him, and two, Dimitri muttering a soft, but full with intent, _fuck._

Claude’s brain dimly realizes it’s the first time in five years he’s ever heard the prince curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- i made hilda a wyvern lord in my fe3h playthrough and i will swear by it as her best class until the day i am in the GRAVE. also did i name her wyvern after my awakening wifey. absolutely!  
> \- claude’s “is it that mask that’s to blame for your curtness?” line is one of my favorite lines in the entirety of the game and i remembered it while writing that scene and i was like omg... it fits so well here... I HAVE TO INCLUDE IT  
> \- here’s the start of one of the things i’ve added into this au that ties into canon: newspapers! i came up with the entire plot of this story before the cindered shadows dlc happened so i was like fuck it i’m putting in newspapers bc how does fodlan have MAGIC and TONS OF BOOKS and not a PRINTING PRESS. and then the dlc dropped and ((minor spoilers for the dlc ig?)) it turns out based off the banned library books that printing presses were actually going to be a thing but rhea BANNED THEM!!! and so i decided since rhea’s basically nonexistent in this story (like... she's never gonna get mentioned. sorry to any rhea luvrs in the audience i know her ass be PHAT but im just not a fan) therefore she has little of the say she does in canon and as a result i'm letting printing presses exist. newspapers just allow this story to make more sense and you'll start to see why in the next chapter heheh... also because of newspapers being a thing i’d imagine commoners are able to become a lot more literate! thus the masses have at least a basic reading comprehension in this.
> 
> leave some kudos and maybe even a comment if you enjoyed! feedback is always appreciated <3  
> i'm not entirely certain on an update schedule for this, probably every couple weeks? sometimes less? it depends on the speed i'm able to write this fic while dealing with classes and life in general... i do have a whole outline for all the scenes though so the wait should never be too long unless something major comes up!  
> also, just a heads up, this fic is probably going to be around 20 chapters, give or take, with each chapter being around ~5k words (probably a bit more)... so... buckle up... we're in for a long ride...  
> i don't have a twitter acc dedicated to fe, so i've got nothing to link here, but maybe i'll make one? i dunno!  
> if you've made it this far, thank you for putting up with my dumb rambling, and i hope you all have a wonderful day!!


	2. battle royal

Claude’s in his bedroom at House Riegan, scribbling away plans for a new experiment in his notebook on his bed, when someone slams his door open, and his hand twitches towards his pillow. Perhaps this is more of a recurring theme in his life than he realized. Nobody, it seems, has learned how to _knock_ in the past five years he’s been a resident here. Maybe that’s how an assassin will finally get him—they’ll trick him by being the first person to tap at his door before he allows them to enter. Or maybe that’s how he’ll realize they’re an assassin in the first place.

“Claude von Riegan, I’m going to end your life,” Judith growls as she stalks into the room, expression murderous and carrying a large pile of newspapers in her arms.

Though a primary leader of her own estate in the Alliance as well, Judith is House Riegan’s advisor, and the only person in the world capable of keeping Claude in line. It’s not that Claude’s terrified of her—well, he is a little bit, because it’s _Judith_ , who he’s seen spar _Nader_ into the ground, and who’s very capable of teasing Claude so bad he would lose absolutely all respect from anyone who has ever known him, should he provoke her. Regardless, underneath her blunt exterior lies a loving motherly heart, and Claude knows his adoration for her is returned tenfold.

Except, however, when Claude’s done something terribly stupid, and she has to help deal with the consequences.

“Judith! Have I told you that you look absolutely _radiant_ today?” Claude says, batting his eyelashes and smiling winningly. He’s immediately met with a glare cold enough to freeze the Valley of Torment over.

“I’m going to nicely ask you to stop talking _once_. You’ve already given me enough of an aneurysm,” Judith responds, slamming the newspapers in her arms down onto his bed in a fury. She picks up a few of them, rifling through each as she reads off their headlines. “ _’BATTLE ROYAL: Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd and Future Duke Claude von Riegan Throw Punches at Emperor Edelgard’s Royal Wedding.' ‘CAKETASTROPHE: Claude von Riegan Sparks a Fódlan Continental War?’”_

Claude frowns. “Okay, technically, it wasn’t _entirely_ my fault. And all I really did was grab onto him because I stumbled—where did they get the idea we were fist fighting from?”

“Do I look like I, or any of these news reporters for that matter, care?” Judith snaps. She opens one of the newspapers, scanning the pages for the story inside. “Listen to this. _‘Sources inside the reception hall claim that the two had been seen arguing minutes before the altercation. Kingdom insiders claim the heir to the Alliance’s feud with the Faerghan prince has raged for years, presumably ever since their first meeting at the Alliance State Dinner five years ago. With that in mind, it seems it was only a matter of time before a fight broke out, unsurprisingly at the hands of the reckless Claude, whose elusive past may have something to do with his behavior.’”_

Judith sighs, setting the newspaper back down. “Got a joke for this one, boy?”

“That’s not even an accurate description of me?” Claude tries, a wry pull to his lips. It really isn’t, though he’s quite used to the newspapers having a rather misconstrued sense of who he truly is, definitely not helped by any bias on the writers’ parts.

“Of _course_ it isn’t, idiot. We’ve already established numerous times in the past that half of Fódlan’s newspapers are written by good-for-nothing bastards who talk out of their asses, and it’s infuriating, to say the very least. But can we worry about dismantling the shitty, prejudiced misconceptions this continent has another time?” Judith replies, voice softer, her irritation giving way to something more fiercely protective. “Right now, we need to focus on this absolute disaster with you and that prince before a war _actually_ breaks out.”

“Hey, listen, it’s not _that_ bad. We can fix this,” Claude reasons, tone placating.

Judith snorts. “No, it’s pretty bad. But you’re right—we _can_ fix this.” With that statement, her expression turns just a tad wicked, and based off Claude’s past experiences with that look on her face, none of which positive, he knows he’s going to hate whatever plan she’s concocted.

From underneath one of the newspapers on the bed, Judith produces a bundle of fancy looking documents, a long essay of words on fresh, professional parchment. On the front of one of the pages reads the words _AGREEMENT OF TERMS_ in giant, bold letters.

“Er,” Claude says, unhelpfully.

“Here’s what’s going to happen next,” Judith starts. “The Alliance and the Kingdom are going to release joint statements saying that what happened at the wedding was a complete accident— “

“Which it was,” Claude interjects.

“—and that you and Prince Dimitri have actually been the closest of friends for years.”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on, _what?”_

Judith raises a hand, signaling him to silence his spluttering instantly. “Before you say anything, I seriously do not care what your opinion on this is. Both sides need to come out of this looking good, and making the incident look like a little play-fighting mishap between two best _'bros’_ is the best way to preserve the harmony each of the three regions have spent the last _century_ building,” Judith air-quotes for emphasis, face filled with disdain as she does so. The moment Claude opens his mouth to protest, she levels him with a stern look and adds, “Think of it as another one of your schemes—you don’t actually have to like him, and you can feel free to secretly plan a million ways to give him the shits. But the moment you see him in person, you act like he’s your date to the ball and the sun shines out of his ass, and you make it _convincing._ ”

And... well, unfortunately, she might have a point. As much as Claude wants to object because of how much he _hates_ this plan, he’s already thought it all over in his head, and he knows Judith is right. There simply isn’t a better scheme that he can think of. Writing it all off as just a little roughhousing between two young boys who have been best friends practically all their lives brings the least questions and the least problems, even if it’s at the cost of Claude’s sanity. The mere thought of having to spend all that time with Dimitri, strong contender for the award of _Most Irritating Person in Claude’s Life_ , makes him feel that much closer to death.

Judith hands him the foreboding stack of papers with that cursed _AGREEMENT OF TERMS_ on front. It explains the plan that she’s summarized for him in greater, needlessly complicated detail in the way all contracts do—essentially, Claude’s required to go to Faerghus over the next few days to make appearances with Dimitri and generate good PR. He flips through a few pages, and he finds a couple of items that list the specific requirements of the visit:

_One (1) portrait painting commissioned of both parties, to be published in the papers upon completion._

_Two (2) joint appearances in Fhirdiad: one (1) day outing, in order for both parties to be seen behaving amicably together by the general public, and one (1) public charity appearance._

Curious, and because he knows better than to think that they'd have no part in the plan, Claude asks, “And what about the Empire? Where do they fit into all of this?”

“Emperor Edelgard and Empress Consort Dorothea have very, _very_ generously accepted our apologies and this plan as compensation. They said that they’d rather let this whole situation blow over instead of causing any more havoc. You’ll be seeing them again soon—part of the agreement is that the Alliance holds an apology and peacemaking dinner for both the Kingdom and the Empire in a few weeks. I expect you to grovel at their feet for forgiveness over causing an international scandal at their wedding then,” Judith says, eyes narrowed and voice leaving no room for argument.

With a resigned sigh, Claude responds, “Fine. Will that be all?”

“Thankfully, yes. Pack your bags—I hear Faerghus is especially cold this time of year,” Judith grins, that little wicked twist to her lips making its reappearance, and Claude groans. “I expect to hear nothing but glowing praise from the papers about you and that Blaiddyd boy’s _‘brotherhood’_ upon your return.”

Judith collects the newspapers again, stacking them back into her arms. She stares down at Claude, scrutinizing him carefully. Whatever she sees in his current pitiful and subdued state as he slouches on his bed causes her to huff a breath from her nose and shake her head, amused, or exasperated, or some kind of mix of the two. “You’re an idiot, boy, but you’ll make this right.” Turning on her heel, she lifts a hand in farewell and says, “Love you, don’t be a brat again or I’ll hunt you down and tear you a new one myself, bye!”

Just like that, the door’s swinging shut behind her, and Claude’s left to his lonesome once more. He stares at the closed door for a moment, before colliding his face down into his pillow and letting out a long, deep breath. Pretending to be friends with Dimitri—insufferable, coldhearted, annoying Dimitri. This is a thing he’s going to have to do now, for who knows how long. Contractually, the rest of his life, but realistically, at least as long as he stays in Fódlan for.

It’s a struggle to conjure up any sort of silver lining to all of this to uplift his spirits. In the end, Claude settles on calling it a sort of karma for his irresponsible actions. He genuinely does feel awful for essentially ruining his friends’ wedding, especially after he swore he wouldn’t start any chaos, even if it was an honest accident. The least he can do is work to atone for his mistake in any way he can. He’s not doing it for Dimitri—Claude couldn’t care _less_ about him or his feelings on the matter. He’s doing it for Edelgard and Dorothea, so their wedding won’t be known by the continent forever as a complete disaster at the hands of two leaders who hate each other’s guts.

(He’s also doing it for Lysithea, who refused to speak a word to him the entire trip back to Alliance territory because he ruined the cake before she could try it.)

So, he’ll be good. He’ll act his ass off and fool the entire world into thinking he believes Dimitri’s a god among men. It’s not the first time he’s had to lie and deceive, and it’s certainly not the most difficult. Claude puts on a front every single day—surely, he can do this just as easily.

With a determined nod, Claude gets up from his bed, and starts packing for Fhirdiad.

♚

To Claude’s utter disdain, Judith was right, as she usually is. Faerghus is absolutely _glacial_ this time of year, and that’s putting it lightly. The wind nips at and stings Claude’s cheeks, numbs his hands even through his gloves, causes his eyes to water with the chill. He thinks maybe he gets why Dimitri lives here—an icy, hellish place for an equally icy, hellish heart.

It seems throwing layers upon layers of cloaks on top of himself was a futile attempt at warmth, because Claude’s still freezing down to the bone. Alliance winters are nothing this bad—the chilly wind causes the trees to shake a little more, and perhaps once in a while a light dusting of snow will fall. Almyra doesn’t even know what winter is, and would probably laugh at the very idea of something so outlandish as _snow._

Nevertheless, Claude makes it to Fhirdiad in spite of the subzero temperatures, with Nader and a few others as his personal guards as per usual. When he arrives at the palace, Dimitri’s retainer Dedue is waiting outside to greet them.

Claude’s seen Dedue plenty of times before, always flanked to Dimitri’s side—though, funnily enough, one of the rare instances he _wasn’t_ was at the wedding, which is the one time disaster struck. He’d laugh more at the idea that Dimitri needs a babysitter to keep him out of trouble if he wasn’t the one who, admittedly, instigated the whole thing.

Dedue’s tall, broad, ridiculously good-looking, and always well-groomed, and Claude won’t hesitate to admit that he admires him immensely. He’s always desired to learn more about Dedue, maybe form some kind of kinship with him, as one outsider to another. It’s a shame Dedue’s sworn fealty to Dimitri, or else Claude would be all over him, persuading him to become his own vassal. Alas, he respects Dedue’s highly questionable taste in lords, but he’ll still secretly hope to snatch Dedue for his side someday.

“Claude von Riegan. The Kingdom welcomes you to Fhirdiad,” Dedue bows.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” Claude gives a charming grin, and if Dedue can tell he’s lying through his chattering teeth, he doesn’t show it, as straight-faced as ever. “Probably not how you thought you’d be spending your weekend, huh?”

Cracking the most imperceptible of smiles, Dedue responds, “I am not as surprised by this turn of events as you might imagine.”

Before Claude can begin to question what he means by that, Dedue’s already walking off, strides long and mannerisms cool, and Claude tries not to be _too_ visibly impressed. “Please, follow me. I will explain the proceedings of the next few days while I escort you to where His Highness and the painter are waiting.”

Claude’s always cursed his genes for failing to give him his father’s height, but he especially hates them now. Trying to keep up with the steps of a man with a good thirty centimeters on him has him feeling moments away from keeling over, especially considering how he’s already freezing and physically exhausted from the trip here. Maybe if he were less prideful, he’d ask Dedue to slow down, or if he were bolder, he’d ask Dedue to carry him in his incredibly buff arms, but the thought of allowing himself to look pitiful in front of the man keeps his mouth firmly shut.

“Tonight, you will be staying in one of the palace’s guest bedchambers. Tomorrow morning, you are free to roam around Fhirdiad with His Highness at your leisure, so long as the two of you stay together so as to be seen by the public. Later in the afternoon, you and His Highness will visit a local orphanage, and after that, you will be free to make the trip back to Derdriu,” Dedue succinctly explains. “For now, you and His Highness will be getting a portrait painted of the two of you, which I assume you already know.”

Honestly, this is probably the worst time _ever_ for Claude to get a portrait painted of himself. He’s sure he must look ridiculous, with three cloaks layered on top of his body, his cheeks rosy, and his hair askew from brittle winds. At the very least, his sole comfort is that Dimitri probably won’t be looking all that great either, especially not in this weather.

Dedue walks Claude into a large, posh room with navy walls and tall windows, set up simply with a plush, blue and gold accented couch with matching pillows in front of one of them. He first spots who he assumes is the painter—a thin, green-haired boy with round spectacles and a stiff posture.

Then his gaze shifts over to the person beside the painter, and Claude’s urge to scream into the nearest pillow goes from nonexistent to an all-time high.

Apparently, Claude underestimated Dimitri’s unparalleled skill at always looking like he’s just walked right out of the pages of a fairytale. It should be impossible, how perfect he manages to look every single time Claude sees him. Maybe Dimitri does it just to mess with him, mock him in his current disaster of a state. He’ll theorize on that one later.

The lighting from the giant windows hits Dimitri’s broad frame at just the right angle that it makes him look divine, his eyes glowing in a way that’s less piercing and instead more gentle and heavenly. A warm looking fur cloak is draped over his shoulders, accompanied by a black jacket that fits his torso in all the right ways, tight fitting dark pants covered midway by his boots, and of course, his ridiculous, golden hair falling over his face in a way that somehow still makes him look—

Whatever. Dimitri’s always been objectively attractive. It’s fine. It’s really not a big deal, and what reason would Claude have to care about it?

Because the painter’s there, Claude turns the act on, smiling easy and wide, though maybe it’s a tad bit sharp. Dimitri extends a hand, which Claude accepts, giving a firm shake. If he squeezes just a little too hard to piss Dimitri off, well, that's neither here nor there, especially since Dimitri does it twice as hard in return, like an asshole. His hand is calloused and rough like a soldier, yet somehow quite warm in spite of the freezing weather. Claude’s not sure why his brain notes this, but it probably has some ingenious use he hasn’t realized yet. Better to know his enemy as well as he knows himself, or however the saying goes.

Through his teeth, Claude says lowly, “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“Gladly,” Dimitri responds, and there’s a hint of an edge to his voice that Claude rather likes. Any slip in Dimitri’s perfect, polite façade excites him, makes him feel closer to figuring out who Dimitri really is behind all the posturing.

The painter introduces himself as Ignatz, whom Claude’s pretty sure he’s heard of before—his paintings circulate throughout Alliance territory frequently, and he knows they’re nothing short of breathtaking. Ignatz has them sit on the couch in front of one of the windows, asking them to act like they normally do around each other, which Claude has to bite back a laugh at. (The thought of Ignatz painting a picture of him and Dimitri covered in cake on the floor of Edelgard’s wedding is terribly, _terribly_ amusing.) According to Ignatz, his goal is for the painting to look as boyish and friendly as possible.

That, Claude can do easily. With a cat-like grin, he drapes himself on top of Dimitri, slinging a casual arm over his far shoulder, his chin resting on the shoulder closer to him. Predictably for the prim and proper prince, Dimitri tenses immediately, and Claude has to repress the urge to roll his eyes.

“Pretend that you like me,” Claude mutters up into Dimitri’s ear. Dimitri shudders ever so slightly beside him, but ultimately, he complies, smiling handsomely and tentatively ruffling a hand through Claude’s hair. Weirdly enough, the touch sends an sudden tingly sensation down Claude’s spine that he isn't used to. It’s definitely... strange, but he decides to ignore it for now, and unpack its significance later, if it has any.

Just as Claude suspected, Ignatz is clearly an expert worth his coin. He works efficiently and diligently, and he’s more or less done by the end of the day. There are still some finishing touches that need to be taken care of, but apparently there’s no need for Claude or Dimitri’s presence for any of it.

Claude quickly unlatches himself from Dimitri’s side, though, oddly, the sudden lack of warmth that was once there makes him feel a bit empty. Maybe he should ask Dedue if he could indicate him towards any extra cloaks lying around. 

Claude sincerely thanks Ignatz for his hard work, to which Ignatz blushes and stammers profusely about how he’s too kind, and the pleasure being all his. It’s adorable, really. Claude’s definitely going to purchase a couple of the man’s paintings the moment he gets back to Derdriu.

A servant enters the room to escort Claude to his quarters, and without sparing Dimitri a second glance, Claude gladly follows, eager for a well-deserved respite after such a long day.

♚

Except... Claude can’t sleep.

It’s not that odd of an occurrence, really. Getting a proper, well-rested night of sleep has always tended to be hit or miss for him. It’s a combination of a lot of things—the restlessness that comes with the need to always be doing _something,_ for one. Staying in a new space he isn’t accustomed to and doesn’t know inside out. The overwhelming, perpetual fear that if he lets himself fall into any false sense of security, he might not ever wake up again.

So, Claude doesn’t sleep. At least, not yet. Instead, he decides on a new plan—sneaking into the kitchens unseen for a very late night snack.

Claude’s light on his feet and a master of dexterity—even with the guards keeping watch, he slips past and makes it to the kitchens easily. Which is... slightly concerning, considering how effortlessly a corrupt intruder could get through if they were as nimble as him. He frowns as he mulls over this. It’d be rather easy to get to Dimitri then, wouldn’t it? Not that he’s _worried_ for Dimitri, it's simply that the Kingdom would fall to absolute chaos and distress were something to happen to their precious prince, and then where would Claude's dreams of a united, harmonious world be? Though, Dimitri has Dedue, and he reasons Dedue’s plenty sharp for the both of them. It’s unlikely harm would come Dimitri’s way with him there to guard him.

Somehow, the thought makes him feel a little... lighter.

Quietly, Claude begins rummaging through the pantry in search of something to snack on. It doesn’t take long—his hand closes around a familiar shape, and his eyes widen a bit in delight as he pulls it out to see what it is.

In his hands is a fruit he recognizes as an Almyran good, coincidentally one of his favorites from back in his homeland. Though the relationship between Almyra and Fódlan is by no means anywhere _near_ positive, there is a bit of trade that flows between the two regions, solely for the sake of maintaining the economy. Both regions have wares the other wants for its profit. Mostly, he's seen it in the Alliance territory due to the proximity—he hadn’t realized some of it had found its way to Faerghus, as well. He holds the small, orange fruit in his hands with a bit of reverence, splitting it in half carefully to remove the seed in the middle. Smiling, he takes a small bite, and it’s just as tangy and sweet as he remembers.

As he’s finishing one half of the fruit, suddenly, there’s a creaking noise from a floorboard. Claude freezes for a split second in surprise, before quickly concealing the fruit in his sleeve first, and then moving to hide.

And by hide, he means instinctually maneuvering himself to grab onto a large horizontal bar on the ceiling to cling to, out of sight. If nothing else, at least he’s creative with his tactics.

There’s a flicker of light from a candle, and Claude holds his breath, making sure not to make a single movement. The light eventually illuminates the face of whoever’s entered the room, and it’s... _Dimitri?_

It’s the least put together Claude’s ever seen the prince—his hair is practically a bedhead, artfully rumpled but at the very least not as neat as usual. He’s wearing a wrinkled, blue, short-sleeved shirt that fits rather large even on his broad torso, showing a sliver of collarbone, and matching pants to go along with it. His feet are swaddled in fuzzy wool socks, the only sign that he might even be remotely affected by the cold in the air. Even his expression is vastly different, much more haggard and exhausted, and Claude wonders why he’s awake in the state that he’s in.

Claude doesn’t plan on moving from his position, keen on watching Dimitri do whatever he’s come here to do, a chance to observe him with his guard down. However, as if sensing something odd in the air, Dimitri stills upon walking in and somehow has the foresight to look up, of all places. It only takes him a moment to spot Claude, and once he does, he goes ramrod stiff and becomes ten times more alert.

“ _Claude?_ ” Dimitri hisses, widening blue eyes illuminated by the flame.

In an acrobatic and nimble movement, Claude gets his calves carefully swung around the bar and hangs upside down from it, face a good handful of centimeters away from Dimitri’s own.

“Well, fancy seeing you here, Your Princeliness,” Claude drawls.

Dimitri peers back at him, suspicion clear on his face. “What are you _doing_ here? And why in the world are you hanging from the ceiling?”

Pulling the fruit back out from his sleeve, he waves it around for Dimitri to see before taking a bite. “Couldn’t sleep. Why are _you_ here?”

“I couldn’t sleep either, like most nights,” Dimitri responds, tone wry. He’s still staring at Claude, bemused. “I am certain that hanging upside down _cannot_ be beneficial for your blood flow.”

Claude ignores him, taking another bite and observing the prince carefully. Since he’s got him here, he might as well question Dimitri while he seems to be willing to answer. “Interesting. So do you just raid the kitchen whenever sleep won’t come?”

“Some nights,” Dimitri admits. “Other times I read, or I train, or I visit the stables.”

"Visit the stables?" Claude raises an eyebrow.

Dimitri nods, once. "To take care of the horses, or go for a ride on mine. Spending time with them in the cool night air, so that I may clear my head, or say what's on my mind to beings who will simply listen free of judgment. It can be... rather soothing."

Claude's silent for a moment. He hadn't taken Dimitri for the type to be all that self-conscious, not with how egotistical Claude has always thought him. It's intriguing, to say the least. He ruminates over a proper response for a few beats, turning over this new knowledge in his head, before finally asking, "What's your horse's name?"

Dimitri looks a tinge surprised by his words, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly, but he answers quickly anyways. "Faina."

"Pretty. Any significance?"

"It means... light. Shining. It's a reminder to myself, to ward off the dark," Dimitri elaborates. His words are slow and concise, as if he's selecting them with great care before speaking. Another behavior Claude's never seen from him before.

Perhaps if this was any other time, Claude would be more scathing, his words sharpened more like daggers instead of rounded and amicable. Probably, they would never have gotten this far into a peaceful conversation to begin with. He's not sure what makes right now different from all the other times.

It’s strange, but something about this moment in the night just has a weird tinge of vulnerability to it, like Claude’s stuck in a bubble with Dimitri. It’s as if there’s no outside world, and time has frozen just for the two of them right here—just Claude hanging upside-down in Dimitri’s kitchen, less hostile and more simply inquisitive, and Dimitri answering him truthfully in this flickering light, more open.

A part of his brain thinks he might be more partial to this odd, nighttime Dimitri, bleary-eyed and rumpled and domestic and cozy, who names his horse after light and speaks soft and true. There are bags to his eyes that Claude’s never seen before, a darkness there that he wants to take apart and learn more about. He wants to press his fingers to Dimitri’s arm and see if he’s freezing to the touch like Claude currently is or instead a burning furnace, run a hand through his ruffled hair and verify at last if it’s truly spun out of gold the way it appears—

Okay, _wow,_ what in the world is he _thinking?_ The haziness of this night is really getting to his head. Or maybe he’s also a little too curious for his own good. What was that saying about cats again?

Snapping him out of his daze, Dimitri speaks, quiet, but a bit more astute than he probably realizes. “I imagine it must feel strange, having to stay in such a different land far away from home.”

For a single delirious, hysterical second, a surge of panic rushes through Claude’s body, thinking Dimitri means Almyra— _he knows, he’s figured it out, what will he do with your secret_ —and then he realizes Dimitri means the _Alliance,_ and all of the tension leaves his body just as quickly as it entered.

“You get used to it,” is all Claude cryptically replies, maneuvering himself so he can drop down from the ceiling back onto his feet. Once he’s upright again, he takes the last bite of his fruit. If it seems at all like he’s moving quickly to get out before Dimitri can press him with any more questions that hit a little too close to the locks in his mind for his liking, well... he won’t deny it. While he’s confident that he could talk his way around all of it with quarter-truths and other vague responses, he knows the better strategy here is to simply avoid it altogether while he can.

“Well, I’d best get going. Gotta get up bright and early for our lovely stroll through town tomorrow, right?” Claude gives Dimitri a two fingered salute as he makes his way out the door. “Have a good night, or something like that.”

Graceful and silent, Claude escapes the kitchen, leaving Dimitri staring, confused, after him.

♚

To Claude’s dismay, it’s not any less cold outside today than it was yesterday. Even when the wind isn’t blowing, the air bites at his cheeks and seeps through his cloaks to chill his skin. Of course, Dimitri is nowhere near as affected as him—though his nose is a bit red and his cheeks are flushed, it makes him look more alive, bright-eyed and crystalline. Snowflakes fall onto his hair and entangle themselves in the golden strands delicately, giving him that much more of an angelic appearance. It infuriates Claude to a degree unmeasurable in words.

Neither of them have spoken a word about last night. Though, it’s not like there’s much to say in the first place. In a way, it feels like it was a dream that Claude made up in his head, and the longer nothing’s said, the more he thinks it true.

Despite its infernal coldness, Fhirdiad is admittedly a gorgeous city. The streets are paved in dark bricks that contrast the snow that covers all around, with silver lanterns lighting the paths. All of the houses are sturdy and hardened to protect from the climate, some with logs and others with bricks, yet they still give off an inviting, warm vibe. There’s some breathtaking statues placed here and there of religious figures like the saints, detailed perfectly by expert hands. It's all elegant yet rugged, an odd but fitting blend of beauty and militarism to it.

Claude walks by Dimitri’s side as Dimitri introduces it all to him as a way to pass the time. There's some Kingdom guards trailing far behind them, ordered to come along to keep an eye out just in case any danger presented itself. He’s thrown an arm across Dimitri’s shoulder to hold him close in faux friendliness, holding back laughter at every villager who stares at them with wide eyes and slack jaws, and if Dimitri’s presence also keeps him slightly warmer... well, Claude’s never claimed not to be selfish.

Dimitri had gone stiff as a lance the moment Claude touched him, and he still hasn’t quite been able to shed that unnatural awkwardness.

“Loosen up, Your Princeliness. You look like you’ve got a bigger stick up your ass than usual,” Claude mutters, making sure that they’re safely out of earshot from any passersby.

“This is ridiculous,” Dimitri huffs in response.

Claude rolls his eyes. “Jeez, what happened to being so good at faking?” His words after are derisive, but there’s a touch of self-consciousness to them that makes him internally wince in embarrassment. “Is it so bad to be around me?” _Yikes, that sounds pitiful, doesn’t it?_

“I think your constant antagonistic attitude suffices as an answer to that question,” Dimitri replies, clipped and tight as always.

Claude throws his head back and laughs, loud and fake, punching Dimitri in the arm playfully. “Go fuck yourself.”

Interestingly enough, Dimitri’s face flushes bright red, a choked out, scandalized “ _C-Claude!”_ escaping his lips before he falls silent. Claude takes quick note of this, and although he’s amused, he decides to say nothing about it, leaving it to press on another time.

After passing by gaggles of children starting snowball fights, they reach an area of vendors, who all look starstruck upon seeing the two lords. Claude stops to buy a few things—some arrows, a bejeweled but practical axe he thinks Hilda would like, a couple of tomes for Lysithea to pour through that he’s sure she hasn’t read already. He manages to talk his way into getting discounts on all of it thanks to his silver tongue and coy winks, twirling his braid around deft fingers. He finds it amusing, especially as Dimitri looks on beside him in exasperation.

“How do you manage to persuade them so easily every time?” Dimitri asks as they wander around, perusing more of the wares.

Claude shrugs, and then winks at Dimitri, cheekily. “What can I say? Some people just can’t resist the charm.”

It’s probably just a trick of the light, but for a second he thinks there might be a bit of extra rosiness to Dimitri’s cheeks. “I suppose so.”

Eventually, it’s about time to leave and head back for the palace. However, on the way back, Claude happens to glance at one vendor’s stall, and tugs hard at Dimitri’s arm to signal for him to stop walking. “Hey, wait a sec, will you? I wanna buy one last thing.”

Untangling himself from Dimitri, he rushes over to the stall, purchasing the item that caught his eye and hiding it behind his back to keep it out of Dimitri’s line of sight.

When he returns to Dimitri, he places a gloved hand over the prince’s eyes. “Okay, close your eyes a moment. And _don’t_ peek.”

“Claude, if this is one of those pranks of yours, I—“

Standing on the tips of his toes, he manages to place the item onto Dimitri’s head. With a satisfied beam, he exclaims, “Ta-da! You can open your eyes now.”

When Dimitri opens his eyes, Claude bursts out laughing, clutching onto his stomach. The sight of a disgruntled, frowning Dimitri in a headband with faux, fluffy lion ears on top is an image he never knew he needed to see until right now. If only he could get it painted and framed—maybe if he describes it to Ignatz in enough detail...

Dimitri takes the ears off his head to look at what it is exactly Claude’s laughing at. When he sees the headband, he's unable to hold back his giggles, pressing a hand to his face in amused exasperation. “Saints, I can’t believe you...”

After a few beats, their laughter dies down, the two left staring at each other as if in a trance. There’s a certain calmness between them that’s similar to last night’s dream, like if either of them makes too sudden of a move, this moment will crumble to dust and time will start flowing through the glass again.

The notion of that then comes with the sobering remembrance that this is _Dimitri,_ the cold boy who Claude dislikes but has been contractually obliged to pretend to be companions with, not an old friend. There’s no genuine camaraderie here—it’s all just an act, something for other people to believe, not himself. There’s no point in letting himself be deluded any further.

The warmth flowing through his body seems to burn out instantly, and it’s there the moment slips through his fingers, nothing but ash left to fall through the glass. Claude clears his throat. “Well, I guess we better get going. We’ve gotta leave for the orphanage soon.”

The upward pull to Dimitri’s lips falls back into that flat, robotic line Claude hates so much. “Yes, you’re right. We’ve wasted too much time.”

The two make their way back to the palace, but Claude keeps his hands shoved in his pockets, and doesn’t hold Dimitri close this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i really want an excuse for claude to spider-man hang upside down from the ceiling like a little kid on some monkey bars while dimitri’s like ?!??!!?!?! Absolutely. please do not question any of the physics of it, if claude can shoot his bow perfectly while doing a flip in the air, then he can hang from the ceiling upside down for any period of time. he does not abide by the laws of the universe!
> 
> so i'm updating a lot sooner than i said heheh! i'm going to make it my plan to update whenever i have the next chapter or two written out already so there's no prolonged wait times between them and i can work at a consistent pace. i actually had to split this chapter into two because it got so long, so we’ll be seeing the second half of claude’s visit next time. a lot will happen then, with a few questions being answered heheh, so keep an eye out!
> 
> thank you for reading and all your kind words <33 im so glad to know people are enjoying this!! feedback is always greatly appreciated. have a lovely day!


	3. bonding in closets with your sworn enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! its been quite a while since i was last able to update this… things got Kinda crazy around me thanks to covid so i was more preoccupied with that than writing for a bit… i hope everybody is doing as well as they can and practicing some nice SOCIAL DISTANCING… please stay inside as much as possible and keep yourself and everybody around you safe <3 and if you unfortunately can't stay home due to work and such i hope you're staying safe regardless.
> 
> since it's been a while, and this chapter is a continuation of the last one, i feel like i should recommend you reread the last chapter again. however if you want a super condensed, probably terrible summary: claude's in faerghus thanks to his foolishness at edelthea's wedding, and him and dimitri have to pretend to be besties for the press.
> 
> i hope you enjoy! i apologize again for the wait to anyone who was wondering where this fic went!

When it comes down to it, the real reason Claude wants to become a political leader is because of the people. His entire life, he’s seen countless marginalized groups face all sorts of hardship—hell, he’s experienced it himself. Poverty, discrimination, inequality, abuse; it’s all rampant in Fódlan, and hardly anything is being done about it by those currently in charge. Regardless of whether or not he thinks he really deserves it, Claude’s been blessed with being in line for the power to change the lives of people across the world for the better. His dreams of harmony, solidarity, and prosperity don’t stop at Fódlan, or even Almyra—he’s going to tear down these borders and make the world the best he possibly can. It’s not an empty statement, it’s a promise that he’ll keep and work towards until he can’t any longer.

Entering the orphanage is a reminder of this oath he’s sworn to himself. He brings in boxes of spare cloaks, scarves, and gloves found in the palace with Dimitri, giving them gladly to the flustered caretakers and shaking their hands.

What annoys him, however, are the journalists swarmed by the entrance of the orphanage. Claude doesn’t believe in publicizing simple kindness—it feels cheap, fake, like it’s only being done to make them look good, and not because Claude, at the very least, genuinely wants to make sure kids in need have enough to keep them warm in this climate. As Dimitri gives the journalists a few words they eagerly absorb to write in their papers, Claude stands off to the side, flippant smile forced to stay on his face.

To prevent himself from saying something snarky that’ll probably get him into more trouble than it’s worth, Claude decides to focus on the kids. They swarm around him and Dimitri with big, awestruck eyes and jaws dropped. Most of them don’t really know who he is, but once Dimitri introduces him as heir to the leading house of the Alliance, they’re all tugging at his arm and asking him what it’s like living there, and does he know the Hero of Daphnel?

Claude’s always adored kids, especially for their rambunctious, crafty minds and eager pursuit of knowledge. As a result, he quickly loses track of time playing around with the orphanage children, listening to their stories and telling them some of his own in kind. The kids seem to be fond of him in return, gasping at all his dramatic tales of riding wyverns and escaping thieves and bandits by himself with only his quick wit and a dagger to keep him alive.

Eventually, he realizes that he’s lost track of where Dimitri is, so he wanders around the rooms in the orphanage to look for him. It doesn’t take long—Claude finds him in one of the bedrooms, smiling and holding hands delicately with a little girl with tanned skin and elaborate braids. Claude’s surprised to notice it’s one of the most genuine expressions he’s ever seen on Dimitri’s face, not a single ounce of that forced, robotic politeness on it. He positions himself outside the room expertly so that he can peer inside and eavesdrop without being noticed.

It takes him a moment to piece together what he’s missed, but he figures out Dimitri’s recounting to her an old Fódlan fairytale about a knight and a princess, the two valiantly fighting together to protect their kingdom from darkness. His voice is quiet but warm, with a tinge of wistfulness to it as well. The little girl listens with rapt attention, and when Dimitri’s finished, she smiles, a bit sad.

“Y’know, when I grow up, I want to be a knight, and protect whoever I can. But some people say I can’t, because I’m a girl, and because I’m not from around here.”

Dimitri’s lips twist into a frown, his eyes sparking with a hint of fury. “That’s utter nonsense. Don’t listen to a word they say.” Squeezing her hand lightly in encouragement, he adds, “I’ll even give you proof. One of my closest friends actually had that same dream growing up, even though many people told her she would be better off being a simple housewife. But guess what? She’s well on her way to becoming a knight, now. I bet you can do the same.”

A caretaker slips past Claude to enter the room, interrupting the peace of the moment. “Cassie, it’s time for dinner...” Her voice trails off as she notices Dimitri’s presence, gasping in shock. “Oh, Your Highness! I didn’t realize you were in here, I’m sorry.”

Dimitri shakes his head in dismissal, smiling kindly. “Please, you have nothing to apologize for.” He turns to face Cassie again, who seems thoroughly put out over the prospect of having to leave the prince. “Remember what I’ve told you, okay? Follow your dreams, no matter what anyone tells you, and maybe someday we can work side by side in the future to help others. I believe in you.”

Cassie nods, beaming as she leans in to give him a tight hug. Dimitri’s eyes widen briefly in surprise, but they soften right after, tentatively wrapping his arms around her in return.

Once Cassie and the caretaker are gone, Dimitri exits the room, and it’s then that he finally notices Claude. He startles, and immediately all the warmth on his face vanishes, back to that clinical, formal mask. Claude’s disappointed, but not at all surprised.

With a curt nod of acknowledgement, Dimitri starts walking down the hall, Claude right beside him. It’s silent save for their footsteps, the air between them so uncomfortable it’s suffocating, to the point where Claude can’t help but say something.

“You were talking about Ingrid, right? The Galatea’s daughter?”

Dimitri’s head snaps towards him lightning quick, his eyes narrowed. “How long were you standing there for?”

Claude winks. “Don’t feel too humiliated, Your Princeliness. I’m only a master of stealth, after all.”

With a resigned sigh, Dimitri gives in. “Yes, I was talking about Ingrid. What is it to you?”

Shrugging, Claude speaks truthfully. “Nothing, it’s just interesting. I didn’t think you were capable of such kindness beneath that heavy mask.”

That, at least, causes Dimitri to crack a smile. “I told you, you don’t know me as well as you think, Claude.”

Claude opens his mouth to respond, but before he can get a word out, there’s a terrified, high pitched scream and a sharp _clang_ from one of the rooms in the orphanage, and his blood runs _cold._

As he tries to think of an explanation for the noise, countless scenarios pass through Claude’s mind. _Some of the kids got into a fight._ No, they all seem well-behaved and friendly with one another. Besides, the caretakers supervise them practically everywhere they go—it’s not a particularly large building. _One of the kids tripped and fell by accident._ Sure, but why the clanging noise? What could they have knocked over to cause such a loud disturbance?

Then, a traitorous voice snakes its way into his thoughts. _It’s an assassin._

Claude stills, rooted in place by an invisible force.

_The scream, the noise of a weapon, the terror in the air. Someone’s snuck in, tasked with murder._

No, no, that isn’t certain. He’s overreacting, jumping to conclusions. It could easily be something else, some other situation he isn’t thinking of. Claude’s certain he could easily come up with tons of other scenarios that are more plausible if only he could get the picture of a wounded child out of his head. Why is his heart pounding so loud? Why can’t he breathe properly?

Over and over, a mantra plays in his head. _They’ll hurt the kids to kill you, and it’ll be your fault._

Less than three seconds later, Dedue’s in front of them, grabbing them both and chucking them into a small, dark closet like they weigh no more to him than a couple of feathers.

“Stay down,” Dedue orders, before closing the door and locking it behind them.

Thrown off balance and completely caught off guard, the two stumble into the objects in the closet and crash onto the floor, Claude on top of Dimitri, who stares up at him flat on his back.

“Gods,” Dimitri breathes out.

Claude’s frozen still, unable to feel his hands or legs. No matter how much he tries, he can’t get his body to move. There’s a crippling fear that’s controlling him, breathing down his neck and pinning him in place. The logical part of his brain knows this is irrational, but with the way his hands are so numb, he doesn’t think the rest of himself is on the same page. He’s been in this situation multiple times in the past, so why is he panicking right now? All he needs to do is run—no, he remembers the click of a lock, the door is locked from the outside. He’s stuck in here, helpless, while people are presumably getting hurt because of him. Probably, he’s going to die before he can even come close to bringing his dreams to fruition. Fuck, is that his breathing that’s gotten so shallow?

Of course, it’s _his_ voice that breaks through Claude’s spiraling thoughts.

“Claude?” Dimitri says, voice soft and eyebrows furrowed. Claude snaps back to attention, his vision focusing on the body underneath him. He’s staring up at Claude, something foreign and puzzling in his eyes, and if Claude didn’t know any better, he’d call it worry.

But then Dimitri lifts his hand, moves forward as if to—shove him, wave a hand over his face, hold him, comfort him, Claude doesn’t know, but his brain starts blaring the alarms, because Dimitri _knows._ Of course Dimitri knows something’s wrong with Claude—he’s let his vulnerability show too obviously in the rigid, unmoving lines of his body, in his talkative lips that, for once, he can’t seem to part. Dimitri has seen this moment of fragility, and the thought shakes him to the core, makes him feel ill and terrified. He can’t allow for this state he’s in to show any longer.

His father’s hardened voice whispers in his mind, the same words he’s grown sick of hearing again and again since he was a child. _Stand strong, fend for yourself. Show a hint of weakness, and they’ll tear you to shreds._

All at once, Claude forces his body to let go of its tension, except now he’s too loose, too unnaturally pliant. To make up for it, he rifles through his mind to find the most convincing smile to plaster onto his face.

With an air of ease, Claude snickers, “Y’know, this is giving me serious déjà vu.”

Dimitri’s eyes widen in surprise, and he instantly retracts his hand like he’s just brushed his fingers against a burning flame. With a frustrated huff, he presses two fingers to his temple and mutters, “Goddess, and here I thought you would be quiet for once.”

“Hey, you’re the one who started talking,” Claude says, light and innocent. _Keep the shakiness out of your voice and breathe._ As much as he would love to stop speaking right now, the words in his mind refuse to stop rapidly flowing out of his mouth. It’s certainly counterproductive to his desire to stay alive, were a possible assailant to hear his voice through the door, but the anxiety he feels sitting around and waiting for his demise while others might be getting hurt just outside these claustrophobic walls keeps him unsettled and jumpy. He needs to move, do something with his body, release the stress that’s surging under his skin.

His eye twitching, Dimitri retorts, “Aren’t you the one who continued the conversation?”

“Well, I was only following your example. How does that saying go again? When in Faerghus, do as the Faerghans do?” Claude drawls. Dimitri’s expression looks like he’s five seconds away from throwing a fist at Claude, and honest moments like these are the most Claude’s ever liked him.

At the very least, Claude notes, the more he talks right now, the calmer he feels. Maybe riling Dimitri up brings him some sort of comfort. It’s something familiar, something he knows, something to ground him. It passes for normal, typical Claude behavior, so it keeps him safe from Dimitri’s scrutiny, and keeps his mind distracted from the predicament they’re in.

Dimitri groans, clearly annoyed. “Saints, how in the world are you still able to act like _this,_ ” and here he gestures at Claude’s entire being furiously, “while we’re at risk of being _assassinated?_ ”

“Oh, that?” Claude shrugs, schooling his face into the picture of nonchalance. “In a way, you could say I’m used to it.” It’s supposed to come off as a joke, but there’s something dark and humorless in his voice that he doesn’t realize is there until the words have already left his mouth and he feels their bitter taste on his tongue. He internally winces. Well, now he’s _definitely_ revealed too much.

A question passes over Dimitri’s face, but Claude’s moving on before he can open his mouth to comment. He rolls off Dimitri onto his back and bumps into the wall, now stuck lying squished between it and the prince. _He’s okay, he’s fine, he’s not going to die, everybody outside is alive. Just keep talking._ “Well, this certainly wasn’t how I was expecting today to go. Locked in a supply closet with you, of all people, at risk of an unfortunate death.” With a huff, he shoves at Dimitri’s shoulder, and complains, “Why are you so broad, you’re taking up all the space!”

“Believe me, I do not wish to be stuck in here with you either,” Dimitri grumbles. “And what do you want me to do about that? I cannot change the way my body is shaped. Would you like me to start complaining about your elbow that’s currently poking into my ribs?”

Smiling sweetly, Claude shoves his elbow with extra applied force, causing Dimitri to let out a loud, startled yelp. “Whoops, my bad! I can’t control my body either, unfortunately.”

Suddenly, before Claude can even process it, Dimitri rolls so that he’s on top of Claude, pinning him down with one hand and covering his mouth with the other. “ _Enough!_ ” he growls, eyes alight with that blue flamed fury again. “Do you have a death wish? Stop messing around and putting yourself in more danger!”

The snarl in Dimitri’s voice sends a thrill down Claude’s body that makes him shiver, and he’s fully struck silent for a few moments, green eyes blown wide. He certainly wasn’t expecting _this_ to be what causes Dimitri to suddenly drop the cool and collected façade, and for him to do so to show concern... for _Claude?_

It’s odd. Really odd. Reading people is what Claude does. He knows how to tell when others aren’t being truthful, has learned how to decipher any tics that give anything they’re hiding away. His eyes have always been shrewd and analytical, his tongue sharp but cautious, his most valued survival tools that allow him to quickly take a person apart and figure out the right words to say to them for nearly every situation.

And yet... Dimitri’s the one case Claude has never been able to get a proper grasp on, what with these sudden, unpredictable displays of emotion, care and sensitivity he didn’t think Dimitri was capable of. Part of it is frustrating, but another part of it entices him, that unrelenting, curious part of him that loves a challenge.

It takes longer than Claude would like to admit for him to come back to his senses, but when he does, he lets a sardonic grin split across his face. “Wow, so you’ve got some fight in you after all. If I knew that all I had to do to get you to take off that mask was get into a potentially deathly situation with you, I would’ve done this _way_ sooner. Look, the pretentious asshole has feelings! Is that concern I sense in your voice for little ol’ me, Your Princeliness?”

Dimitri merely sighs, apparently lacking the energy to deign him with a response. A silence falls over them again, and Claude feels a burning urge creeping into his throat to say something to keep some sort of conversation going, as long as he’s got Dimitri here.

Clearing his throat, Claude asks, “So, you’ve got a penchant for fairytales?”

“What is it to you?” Dimitri responds, suspicion clear as day in his voice.

“No need to get defensive. You just don’t seem like the type.”

“What makes you say that?”

Claude hums, pausing to think over his next few words. “Well, you look like quite the stoic prince. Either you really don’t care and that whole ordeal with Cassie was an act, or there’s a part of you that still clings onto hopes and dreams.”

With a frustrated huff, Dimitri asks, “There’s something I don’t understand. Why in the world are you so determined to analyze me? Surely I cannot be that interesting to you.”

“Oh, trust me, Your Princeliness, you’re more of an enigma than you’re giving yourself credit for,” Claude assures him. “But, since you don’t seem to get it, let me break it down for you. I want to figure out why you’ve been acting like a person you’re not. Originally, I thought you were hiding the fact that you’re a coldblooded jackass, but now that I’ve heard you tell a little girl to follow her dreams in the face of adversity and discrimination, I’m not so sure.”

“That is none of your concern, Claude,” Dimitri replies, voice clipped.

Claude laughs, sharply. “Oh, it’s not? Because as far as I was aware, we’re best friends now, Fódlan’s beloved royal duo who have secretly been attached by the hip since the day we first met. Take it from a schemer—this charade doesn’t end when I leave, Your Princeliness, or else nobody would believe it. The people of Fódlan aren’t idiots; they’d know it was all fake, and then we’d have another can of worms to deal with. So, if we’re going to have to pretend to be the best of friends for the foreseeable future, I think that grants me the right to know why you act the way you do.”

“Why don’t we start, then,” Dimitri begins, fixing that piercing stare on Claude again, “with you explaining to me why you despise me so much?”

Claude’s lazy smile morphs into something more bitter, akin to an over-steeped pot of tea. “Wow, that’s surprising. Do you really not know?”

“Obviously, I do not!” Dimitri snaps.

“Does the Alliance State Dinner back in Garland Moon five years ago ring a bell?” Claude asks, voice drawn tight and tired.

Dimitri looks at him quizzically. “The one where you threatened to ‘accidentally’ push me down the stairs?”

Rolling his eyes, Claude responds, “No, my dearest nuisance, that was the year after that. Do you seriously not remember?”

Dimitri’s stare is blank, so Claude sighs and elaborates. “I’ll give you a quick summary. I’d just arrived to the Alliance a few moons prior, and I was excited, because it was my first time getting to meet the people I’d be ruling alongside with in a few years. I saw you, so I walked up to you to introduce myself. Then, you looked at me like I had just told you to chomp on a dick, turned to Dedue and asked him quite loudly, and while I was still standing there, mind you, _‘Can you get rid of him?’_ ”

Dimitri’s visibly flustered, now, a flush to his cheeks that wasn’t there before. He coughs, uncomfortable. “Ah. I hadn’t realized you... heard that.”

“I feel like you’re missing the point that it was, you know, a shitty thing to do,” Claude says, frowning.

Dimitri nods his head, staring directly at Claude with a sort of earnestness that catches him off guard. “Yes, you’re completely right. I sincerely apologize, Claude. I had no right to treat you that way, and I understand your frustrations now.” When Claude studies Dimitri’s face, he finds that it’s... surprisingly genuine, any semblance of a mask gone. Like Dimitri truly does feel remorse for his callousness. _Huh._

“This is not an excuse for my behavior, but I feel that I owe you an explanation,” Dimitri continues. “Those... were not easy times for me. I had just lost a great deal, and I was quite a nightmare to be around for a long while after that. The last thing I wanted to do was leave home to discuss politics with people and pretend everything was alright. Then you showed up in front of me, and I... well, I clearly couldn’t handle it.”

It hits Claude then, all of the tidbits he knows about Dimitri’s past coming together and forming a complete image. An _orphanage_ —no wonder Dimitri chose this out of all the places they could do some charity work at. How couldn’t he have realized this before? He’s read on the Tragedy of Duscur, remembers the abhorrent carnage that came with it. Dimitri lost his entire _family_ just a handful of moons before the State Dinner, was the sole survivor of the assassination, and then he had to sit and watch while his people committed mass genocide...

Claude sighs. Well, now that he’s realized how much of an idiot he’s been, he feels nothing short of awful. “No, I owe you an apology as well. I shouldn’t have taken it so personally. The whole situation hit... a little too close to home for me. Then you started acting so prim and polite every time I saw you after that, like it’d never happened, and it drove me crazy. I started making assumptions instead of considering what you’d been going through, and I got carried away. It was immature and petty of me. I’m sorry for that.”

A quiet settles between the two again, as they both let each other’s words sink in.

“Well, at least we got that cleared up. Y’know, I think I might be a tiny bit partial to this Dimitri behind the mask. Only a bit, of course,” Claude attempts to joke, glancing up at Dimitri.

Dimitri lets out a huff of laughter at that, a smile he can’t hide tugging at his lips, and a weird, bubbly sensation fills Claude’s chest at the sight. There’s another beat of silence, and then Dimitri speaks.

“Ashe.”

Claude raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“Your question from earlier... I’m answering it,” Dimitri fidgets, a tad awkward. “Lord Lonato’s son, Ashe. I’ve known him for some years, and he likes speaking with me about all the fairytales he reads. I find them... nice, admittedly. They’re not the most realistic, but their happy endings are comforting. They bring me hope.”

Claude hums, nodding slowly. “What’s your favorite one?”

Dimitri ponders to himself for a moment to think up a response. Suddenly, his eyes light up. “Ah, I know. Ashe recommended I read this one a few years ago. There’s two kings of two neighboring countries. The countries have both hated each other for centuries, and all the past line of kings have only encouraged the animosity with numerous wars. But the two current kings... they do not wish to fight anymore. They do not see the need for it, and at this point, they do not even know why they’re fighting in the first place. It takes a lot of hard work and careful strategizing that the story explains, but essentially, the two kings get their countries to realize that the other is not as bad as they once thought, creating peace and prosperity between the two territories for years to come.”

Claude’s silent, awestruck, but Dimitri seems to misinterpret this as some sort of scornful judgment. His cheeks flush, embarrassed, and he quickly adds, “But, of course, that’s just a fairytale, another fantasy. I know it’s rather unrealistic, I’ve been told plenty of times I’m far too idealistic for my own good. It isn’t really something that would happen in real life—“

“No, actually, I think you’re wrong,” Claude interrupts Dimitri’s rambling.

Dimitri cocks his head slightly, confused. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not unrealistic. I think it’s entirely possible to happen someday,” Claude shrugs, a bright smile shining through his features. “Just give it some time.”

Dimitri goes quiet, staring at Claude with an expression on his face Claude’s never seen him wear before, and thus doesn’t know how to name. It’s a little wide-eyed and blank, so perhaps... dazed? But no, there’s something else there, something in Dimitri’s parted lips and slightly rosy cheeks still present from his earlier sheepishness. He’ll have to take note of this for now, keep it drawn in his memory to look back on if it ever shows up again so he can piece together what it means.

Dimitri moves as if to say something, but suddenly, the door to the closet is ripped open, and he and Claude both immediately tense. Dimitri blindly grabs the object closest to him, a broom, wielding it with an expert soldier’s stance, while Claude gets ready to tear off his boot and chuck it.

Thankfully, it’s just Dedue, who looks more haggard and worn out than Claude’s ever seen him. He didn’t even think Dedue knew what the word haggard _meant_. Dimitri instantly drops the broom, a relieved look on his face.

“False alarm,” Dedue says. “The children were shaken because of some rats in one of the bedrooms, and we ended up being tasked with disposing of them, since they were not able to.”

Claude lets out a long sigh of relief, running a hand through tousled hair. Looks like he had overreacted after all.

Dedue looks between Dimitri and Claude, the slightest amount of amusement dancing in his eyes, a lot for the stoic man. “I am glad to see you both have not murdered each other while left unsupervised, however.”

Dedue extends a hand to help them up from the ground, which Claude takes gladly. Flashing a charming smile, Claude responds, “Yeah, who knew all it takes to bond with your enemy is getting locked in a closet together under risk of death?”

♚

Later in the evening, Claude’s back outside the palace, helping Nader and the other guards prepare for their leave. Dimitri stands just a few steps away, waiting to give them their send-off.

Suddenly, an idea sparks in Claude’s mind, and he walks back up to Dimitri, rummaging through his bag for something. Before Dimitri can ask what he’s looking for, Claude’s already found it, whipping out a purple framed hand mirror.

“Here, this is for you,” Claude says, handing it to him.

Dimitri stares at it, bemused, before accepting it cautiously, as if it’s viable to shock his hand or something underhanded like that. Which, now that Claude thinks about it, is probably something he’d do. “A... mirror?”

“Not just any ordinary mirror. It’s a mirror you can communicate through, with whoever holds the opposite end of it,” Claude explains, taking out a second identical mirror to show Dimitri. “Lysithea found them discarded in the basement of House Ordelia a while back, but she has no clue who left them there. They’re infused with some sort of strange magic that makes it all possible. She gave them to me, because they skeeved her out, and she thought I’d find some use for them. This is me doing just that.”

Dimitri’s eyebrows furrow. “How so?”

“If we’re gonna keep this act believable, we’ve gotta communicate regularly, right? It’ll be annoying to send all our messages to each other through our handlers. Just wave a hand over your mirror, and you’ll see and hear the perspective of mine.” Dimitri looks at him, blankly, and Claude sighs. “It’ll make more sense when you actually try it, you’ll see. I know it’s weird. I’ll get in touch at some point when I arrive back at House Riegan, and we’ll figure the rest out then.”

Dimitri stares at the mirror some more, and then stares at Claude like he’s grown a second head. He clears his throat. “Yes, well, alright. If you say so. Thank you, Claude. Sincerely.”

Claude rolls his eyes, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s no problem, Your Princeliness. However, if you ever decide you want to talk at any time earlier than noon and end up waking me from my beauty sleep, I will do something absolutely devious to make you regret it.”

Choking back laughter, Dimitri replies, “Very well. I’ll keep that in mind.”

♚

It’s Claude’s second day back from Fhirdiad when Judith makes an appearance in Claude’s bedroom again, carrying some newspapers once more. This time, her expression isn’t filled with murderous intent, but is instead proud and satisfied, as she hands the papers over to Claude for him to peruse. The headlines alone have him entertained.

_PRINCE DIMITRI AND CLAUDE VON RIEGAN: A Surprising Bromance?_

_THEY’LL HAVE YOU ENVIOUS: Claude von Riegan’s Heartwarming Weekend Getaway with Best Friend Prince Dimitri_

_EXCLUSIVE: Two Future Leaders, Immortalized Together in Stunning Painting_

It’s funny, how quickly the newspapers have flipped from pointing fingers and scathing remarks to gushing over Dimitri and Claude’s lovely, profound bond. There’s only kind words about the two of them, calling them every variation of well-mannered, delightful boys with a clear friendship incomparable to any other. It seems they’ve all magically forgotten the notion that they could be enemies, which every newspaper strongly believed just a week ago, Claude notes with wry amusement. The power of a good scheme, he supposes.

Some of the journalists had even interviewed a couple of civilians claiming to have seen them during their stroll, and all of their comments are filled with praise over how close the two are. One even goes as far as to subtly imply that they’d look particularly handsome _together_ , if you knew what they meant, and Claude nearly chokes on his laughter. Well, he’ll take it over death threats.

His eyes catch on the last newspaper, the one that discusses the painting Ignatz had done of the pair. It seems the press had gotten their hands on it quicker than he expected, because they’ve somehow engraved a copy of it onto the paper, and it’s... stunning, to say the least. He knew Ignatz was talented, but he had no idea it was to this extent.

He realizes now that the couch was meant to highlight their colors, Dimitri’s royal blue and Claude’s vivid gold, Ignatz capturing their respective hues expertly. The aura of the painting is just as impressive, perfectly expressing a tight-knit bond between them that isn’t even real. Something about it feels _intimate,_ even, with Claude tangled up with and pressed close to Dimitri, to the point where Claude feels like he has to look away, like he’s seen something he shouldn’t have.

“Good job, you little shit,” Judith smirks, ruffling his hair and completely ignoring Claude’s ensuing scowl. “Knew you had it in you.”

Clearing his throat and moving the newspaper below the others to investigate further at a later time, Claude simpers and replies, “When do I ever disappoint?”

When Judith opens her mouth to probably list off a myriad of ways Claude has, in fact, disappointed, as recently as Edelgard’s wedding, he quickly adds, “Don’t answer that, it was a rhetorical question!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well here’s another thing i’ve added to this story— the mirrors! for more constant communication between the two since phones don't exist! (now you might be thinking: what about letters... and to that i say SHHH JUST WAIT. did u think i would give up on the opportunity to have them write stupid sappy love letters to each other... i am a HOPELESS ROMANTIC.) and as for how it ties into canon, welllllll honestly i think you can tell who mightve accidentally left advanced technology in the basement of house ordelia if you know anything about lysithea’s backstory... they’ll play a bigger role later though!
> 
> i hope to have another chapter up soon! i have become super lazy and unmotivated about everything lately being locked inside all the time but im trying to get myself back to being productive again. please stay well <3 and happy 4/20 LMAO


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